Something Like an Exit Wound
by SewerUrchin
Summary: This is angsty with fluff, so be warned! A DB fic in which people sort through their feelings for one Betty Suarez in the face of tragedy and the chance of losing her forever.
1. Chapter 1: At a Loss

**Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own "Ugly Betty" or any of the characters and/or brand names mentioned. I'm just playing around, like a cat with a mouse. No profit made.**

**A/N: Okay, guys, so the muse has possessed me yet again. (It's Christmas Break, no classes, YAY.) So anyways, I gotta warn everyone, this fic right here is angst-o-licious—kind of a downer but in a fluffy way, if you like B/D. Which I do. A lot. It'll probably be a few chapters long. Soooo….hope you like! **

If anybody had ever told Amanda Tannen that she'd never be as rabidly jealous of anyone in her life as she was of Betty Suarez, she'd have laughed in their face and demanded a hit off whatever they were smoking.

She'd always scoffed at the rom-com notion of the attraction of "inner beauty," writing it off along with the notions of brains and talent as something fugly chicks used to comfort themselves on hot nights with Ben and Jerry.

It would have been infinitely easier to hate Betty, to mock her, had she been a sad sack of Bridget Jones-esque proportions. Betty, as it turned out, was just the opposite in every way. She had an effervescent cheerfulness about her that made being cruel—well, not exactly _less_ fun, per se—but kind of like kicking a puppy or dropping a baby chick into a blender. Plus, she seemed so childlike, always, with her small, plump frame and Bambi-brown eyes and blue braces.

If Betty was at all aware of what she lacked in the looks department (and how could she _not_ be, from Amanda's perspective), she didn't give any indication of it. So, it stood to reason that the first thing Amanda envied of Betty was her flat-out unwillingness (or inability) to give a shit. Amanda herself did nothing but give a shit. She gave a shit about the latest fashions, she gave a shit about hot parties in The Village, she gave a shit about the calories contained in the cheesecake she'd devoured and forgotten to throw up after glimpsing Betty and Daniel leisurely kissing on the elevator before the door shut.

Betty had just gotten her braces off that day, she'd reported excitedly to Amanda as soon as she'd walked in that morning, as if Amanda cared. But she had to admit, Betty looked almost cute, and when she caught herself thinking this, she had to turn away, refusing to be charmed, dazzled even, by that smile. That was the freaking trend nowadays, she guessed, being absolutely enchanted by this open enigma of a little girl. Daniel certainly was. Amanda had overheard Betty saying something inane to him, in her wholly unselfconscious way, that morning about her teeth feeling all slick now. And he'd responded by taking her face in his hands and kissing her, glimpses of tongue here and there, slow and leisurely, feeling for himself, she'd guessed.

This last, of course, was the kicker, such a powerful blow to Amanda's carefully cultivated and much-flaunted ego. Amanda had been so besotted, so full of herself, when she'd first started sleeping with Daniel Meade. But her every effort to keep the other Daniel Meade Girls at bay, to play the top bitch, the Queen Bee in a hive full of many, were met with gentle, deadly, knowing eyes, thinly veiled smirks, and outright giggles whenever she strutted over, bristling, claws out and ready, to warn them to stay away from her man.

But not with Betty. Oh no, when Betty had gently but firmly laid her claim, there was no preening, no bowing up, no catty threats required. No, for Betty, the other girls simply, wistfully, and more than a little quizzically, bowed out, knowing in the way that all women do that it was useless to separate the now ever-intertwined tour de force that was Betty Suarez and Daniel Meade. And Amanda had had no choice but to follow suit.

But she would NOT jump on the Betty-lovin' bandwagon, no way in hell, even though as the days passed her barbs contained less venom than the obligation to do what was face-saving, routine, in-character, in the face of the girl's persistent and unflagging kindness. Not even when Marc, the Judas, started referring to her as his "Little Chimichanga" for Crissakes, with something other than derision and scorn in his eyes.

When Betty didn't come charging into work full-steam ahead one morning, Amanda felt the lack. Not because she missed their morning back-and-forth-give-and-take (Betty could hold her own, she had to admit) or anything, God, no, but Betty was always just _there_, a colorful fixture even in her absence, since she'd painstakingly carved a place in the heart of Mode. If she didn't belong there naturally, she'd nestled on in for the duration, regardless. But something was different. Something was wrong; even Amanda, who even according to her best friend could barely get two neurons in her brain to fire at the same time, could feel it. So when she got the call that Betty had been caught in the crossfire of a mugging on the e-train, struck by a stray bullet and now lying in critical condition, Amanda went and reported the news to Daniel. She'd never seen him look quite like that before.

She went back to her seat at the reception desk. Marc strolled up with his manic grin, drawing breath, about to tell her whose boob had popped out at some party in Manhattan. She interrupted him, told him what happened to Betty. The grin froze on his face; he then wordlessly turned and went back to his desk in front of Wilhelmina's office. Amanda could see him take out his stupid sparkly inhaler.

There were phones to be answered, with the same company line she'd spit out a million times. She used it now.

"Mode Magazine, how may I direct…how may I…" She stopped and looked down at her hands.

For the first time in her life, she was suddenly at a loss for words.

**See? Told you it was gonna be angsty. Next chapter will have a lot more D/B interaction, I promise. Reviews are not only appreciated, they are craved like Amanda craves cheesecake. So please do :)**


	2. Chapter 2: B is for Blue Bunnies

**A/N: First of all, I want to give all my reviewers a great big bear hug squeezes--you guys know you rock!!! Secondly, I want to apologize for this chapter not being very D/B-centric. Well, it is, but it's through the eyes of Alexis. She just fascinates me when she's not being all Jekyll-and-Hyde on the show. I know I promised you genuine D/B for this chapter, but the next one will have it, I promise. I just had to indulge the muse for this chapter. So, as usual, please review and I hope you enjoy!**

Alexis Meade had never been one for sentimentality or nostalgia. She'd had no use for it, no place for it, no heart for it, evident when she came stalking down the runway in sparkly couture, panther-scary and militant, out for Bradford's blood.

So she was vaguely surprised at where her thoughts wandered as she stood in the hospital corridor and blankly observed Betty through the glass partition, lost in a vine-like network of tubes and a sea of stark white linen; stark white was so unBetty-like that she half expected Betty to wake up and gag at her swaddling and ask in her squeaky, insistent, sweet, bossy little way for Jello. She didn't, of course, and more than likely wouldn't, according to the doctors. But just the same, Alexis sincerely hoped she would, for the sake of rainbows and lollipops and fuzzy blue bunnies and all that was good in the world, sentimental things that Alexis had no use for but liked knowing they existed. Except for the part about the bunnies being blue. And for the sake of Daniel, who had lost too much, some of it her fault, some of it not. She'd thought they'd removed her capacity for guilt along with her Adam's apple, but she could've sworn she felt a twinge. Damn.

Through her own pre-coming-out research (she had always taken Wili's reports of the outside world with a grain of salt) Alexis had expected that Betty was a smart girl who, by all accounts, was being groomed as Sophia Reyes's protégé at MYW until all that bad business with Daniel and the crock engagement went down.

But Alexis had not anticipated or calculated, in all her wildest schemes, her shock and the strange, foreign, long-dead tightening in the chest area when she returned from her "grave" to discover her rakehell brother wrapped around the little finger of a tiny, unconventional, uncompromising Latina girl that barely came up to his shoulder. It had been Fashion Week, Alexis recalled, and she had been waiting for the moment to drop the bomb of her true identity on Daniel, alternately trying not to laugh or gag as he hit on her.

But when Betty came tearing through, clothed in an oversized Mode t-shirt that made her look all of about twelve years old, Daniel's entire demeanor changed. His face held an expression of gentle, un-jaded pleasure that Alexis had not seen since they were boys, before their father's affair with Fey had come to light, before their mother's resulting loss of all but a few of her marbles and the burning of a thousand copies of Mode, before the deluge of pills and booze and drugs and women that, as far as Alexis knew, started in full force for Daniel when he was sixteen.

Or that first face-to-face (or shoulder to face, as it was) encounter in the elevator—Betty's small, enthusiastic chirp of introduction, her neck craned upward to look her in the eye. Not many people looked Alexis in the eye, not even a stone-cold bitch like Wili had quite the nerve anymore. Not sure what they'd find there, she guessed. But there was Betty, openly curious but not insultingly so, and she had to keep reminding herself that it wouldn't do to befriend the girl who was so unashamedly, unflaggingly loyal to her brother. But with one attempt at a regal, condescending look into that open, earnest, bespectacled face, before she knew quite what she was doing, she found herself describing, admitting, _venting_ the pain, frustration and ultimate victory of her transformation from Alex to Alexis, the whole bone-breaking, flesh-searing story.

Betty never flinched; no disgust, no judgment, not even awe, just curiosity, a genuine, matter-of-fact inquisitiveness of what made her tick, her thoughts, her feelings, her reasoning, her mind. She was the first, maybe the only person since the bandages had dropped away who didn't treat her like a freak, the Queen of the Borg Hive, freaking Seven of Nine, a product of a skilled scalpel to be admired, even held in awe, but never truly seen as anything, anyone real.

Alexis had had to forcibly wipe off the small, quizzical smile that had unconsciously crept onto her face as she stepped off the elevator that day and replace it with a predatory take-no-prisoners one.

Alexis knew that if Betty died, Meade Publications would be hers. Daniel wouldn't even try to contend with her for it after the loss of his life force, would fly off to some remote location to break in peace, and would turn the company over to her lock, stock and barrel, by telephone and signed, Fed-Ex-ed documents.

She found that the thought gave her no pleasure.

Motionless except for her eyes, as still and outwardly serene as the exquisite Grecian statue she'd been modeled after, she glanced at Daniel. In his vigil by, practically _on_, Betty's bed, he, too, was without movement except for his eyes.

They dazedly roamed over the blood-encrusted pearl necklace woven through his fingers.

The "B" was face-up in the palm of his hand.

**Okay, well, that was depressing. Sorry. But please review just the same.**


	3. Chapter 3: Tar

**A/N: I SO love my reviewers. You all are the reason I write, so your kind words mean the world to me. Here's Chapter 3 from Daniel's POV. Hope you like!**

**Flashback**

_It was Betty's 25__th__ birthday, and she was joking that Daniel made a good accessory, since the pink of his tie matched the pink of her dress. They matched, she said, and he wasn't surprised. They had always matched somehow. Now she was practically wearing Daniel like a feather-boa, wrapped in his arms from behind as she was and swaying to the music of the band._

_Daniel had known them once, partied with them, probably shared some groupies. So, he'd called in a favor (or blackmail, as it was, something to do with a groupie named Trixie) and here they were. Betty had informed Daniel that he led a charmed life. Daniel had given her his deep, chill-inducing drunk-chuckle, and murmured into her goose bumped shoulder, buzzed as they both were, that he wished he remembered most of it._

_Every birthday since they'd met, Daniel tried his damnedest to spoil his girl, but she refused to take the bait and actually be spoiled. He loved teasing her, tempting her, though, with promises of pink private jets, Hummers, ponies, islands, loved to feel her playful smack of protest and then the queer trip-hammer beat of his heart after her post-smack kiss on the cheek. Both of them knew, disconcertingly, that he was only half-joking when he promised her these extravagances. If she would ever let him, she would have every need or want or whim or tickle of fancy met, (poof!) granted, signed, sealed and delivered before she could even dream it up. But she would never allow it, and Daniel remained in awe and admiration of the fact that she was wholly unimpressed by material things._

_Tonight, even Times Square itself, with its constant vibrating sensory assaults, couldn't compare with the music as it rolled over them both, directly in front of the stage, smelling the lead singer's sweat and feeling like they were standing on nothing but black, thick, inky atmosphere. _

_The music, the waves of sound, served to amplify every touch between them, Daniel's big hands splayed possessively over Betty's stomach in the ancient masculine gesture of ownership; two of Betty's small hands barely covered one of his as she acknowledged that ownership, as well as asserting her own._

_Sure, malt-liquor was putting extra touchy into an already touchy-feely situation, but Daniel and Betty both knew that he was to be forever and ever straight-up, ecstatically whipped by her velvet-soft olive skin and jet-black locks that curled into wild ringlets after a dip in ocean water and puddle-brown eyes that looked at him out of the face of an earthy little goddess and amazing breasts that, tonight, happened to be wrapped in baby-pink chenille. _

_The baby-pink chenille dress in question was, no doubt, a gift from Christina. It was infested with layers of gauzy toile and came complete with a fuchsia "pimp" hat. In short, she looked, in Daniel's opinion, adorable as all hell. It seemed to suit her, strangely enough, like she was dressed for some sort of whimsical ball. It was beautiful in its own way but completely out of place, like its wearer._

_If Daniel had seen anyone else of his acquaintance bopping around in such a contraption, they'd be sitting in the loony bin next to the rest of his family. But for Betty, to whom life was ever the whimsical ball, it fit._

_Her joyful face tilted backwards up to his and he gave her an upside-down kiss that could've been friendly or boyfriendly or golden-anniversary husbandly, it really didn't matter. _

_The thought delicately flitted across the forefront of his mind, having squirmed its way out of his roiling subconscious were it had been since he met her—_

_We're going to be together; we're going to __**be**_

_And he saw that her knowledge of this unspoken, ever-shown fact mirrored his own._

**/flashback**

The "B" was cutting an indentation into his palm. He let it. The pain still didn't quell the belief that he was dying right along with Betty, his red life seeping out of him just like Betty's had been that morning, when they found her partially underneath the e-train seat.

_Dying without making a sound._

He couldn't cry, he didn't think he knew how. He clasped the "B" tighter, the pearls in the necklace wound around his fingers, cutting off the circulation.

_Killer instinct._

He had it. Oh, yes, he had it. Hadn't shown it, wouldn't show it for his father or the sake of his thrice cursed publishing empire. Hadn't shown it for Alexis—she claimed it wasn't in him. But one thing was absolutely for certain: Alexis would positively piss her pants if she knew, caught even the vaguest whiff, of what was banging around inside him now. It was probably why she was keeping her distance tonight.

_Smell the blood in the water, son_—he wouldn't smell it, but he could cause his fair share. He knew where to start, who he wanted to methodically bleed, to systematically destroy.

He pulled out his cell and dialed.

"N.Y.P.D.—Detective Bowen speaking."

"This is Daniel Meade. So, who the fuck was it?"

"Excuse me?"

"The mugging on the e-train at 7 am this morning, who the fuck was it?" Daniel's voice was bland, almost pleasant, even. All the rage was too busy accumulating elsewhere to come out in his voice, to come out yet in any form. There was time for that later.

"That's confidential, Mr. Meade, I can't just…"

"Tell me or, I swear to God, by the time I get done blacklisting you, you won't be able to score a job as a busboy. I'm not inclined to dick around with you like my father was. Now I'm asking One. More. Time."

Daniel briefly heard the detective stutter over his shoulder "…Jesus H. Christ, he makes his father look like Mary fucking Poppins…" before the cell was snatched away. In its place, a pungent cup of coffee was thrust under his nose, clutched by French manicured nails on a warm, earthy, elegant hand despite its being rigid with strain. Hilda.

Anyone else that had thrown themselves on his particular landmine of blood thirst, his own family included, would've probably been carrying their teeth around in a baggie from that point out. But, as happened when he was in the presence of any Suarez, any thoughts of violence or greed or abuse of power seemed a sacrilege somehow.

His anger didn't actually dissipate, just retreated into a slow, dull, potentially volatile ache that coated his insides and stuck to his ribs like tar. Hilda herself seemed oddly, creepily calm. Like Betty, she was unimpressed by his moods, but this was more of a loaded calm.

As if in answer to his unspoken question, she said, her voice smooth and brisk, "Trust me, when I fucking flip out over this, they'll be able to see and hear the explosion from the South Pole up." She added, unnecessarily and by way of explanation, "It just hasn't sunk in good yet. Come on." She held out her hands.

Daniel obeyed, setting his coffee aside, slapped his palms to hers, let her pull him up, or at least pretend to, like they were playing around at the Casa de Suarez. Once he was vertical, she slung his forearm over her shoulder and led him out into the corridor.

They linked arms and began pacing side-by-side, back and forth. There had almost been something between them once, in what seemed to be another lifetime. Now that vague something had morphed into a much stronger sibling-affection. Hilda gently, in a tragically playful way, bumped her hip against his. It was both a challenge and an inquiry. Daniel bumped back. Hilda seemed satisfied.

"Glad to see you're still in there, Daniel."

He spoke, and his tongue felt clammy, heavy, and unwieldy. "That's up for debate. Most of me is back there." He nodded toward Betty's still form.

Hilda followed the gesture, and for a moment seemed to retreat into her mind. "You know, Betty was seven when Justin was born. Changed his diapers while my flighty teenage ass refused to deal, went out partying…" She shook herself and looked back up at him. Her voice regained its strength, lost its wispy quality. "Betty has a lot to tether her here. For one thing, the bossy little broad is probably ordering the rest of her body to do what she wants as we speak. She's got friends, family, boyfriend…" She put no particular emphasis on this last item, but looked at him sideways from underneath her long, mascara-coated lashes.

Off Daniel's mildly surprised look, Hilda rolled her eyes, more to stave off the sudden moisture there than a gesture of derision. "Oh, yes, everyone knows all about you two. What with you howling under her window like a horny tomcat every night when she's not already at your loft."

Seeing that Daniel was about to withdraw into himself once again, Hilda said, "Papi went to the restroom about twenty minutes ago. Gotta make sure he hasn't fallen into the toilet." She shrugged. "It's happened before. Watch Justin for me, will you?"

Daniel picked up her hand and kissed it. "At your service. Always."

They parted, Hilda restroom-bound, boot heels mournfully clicking on the mint green linoleum, and Daniel walked off to watch the boy.

**I knew I wanted this chapter to be from our boy's POV, but there couldn't be much actual D/B interaction because our leading lady's still asleep. Have no fear, though, there are at least two more chapters to go, and they are both D/B-licious. **

**Reviews will always and forever thrill me!**


	4. Chapter 4: A Point of Pride

**A/N: First and foremost, my reviewers take my breath away. You all are the reason I write, and to hear such kind words totally and completely makes me giddy. Thank you :D I want to offer my apologies for not updating this sooner. I was working on my "Positions" series (which sounds really porny until you actually read it) and I just couldn't get back to that angsty place I needed to be in order to write this. But it's baaaa-ack. Hope you like.**

Daniel found Justin asleep on his mother's faux fur-lined leopard print jacket. At least, he thought he was asleep at first.

Upon closer inspection, the boy's liquid eyes were opened into slits, as usual watching his every move and filing it all away to be emulated later. His little pale blue Ralph Lauren vest was wrinkled, and Daniel knew it to be the only instance of their acquaintance that Justin was not immaculately groomed.

Daniel could practically feel the frail, gentle child genuflect with relief when he sat down next to him. He'd never understand why Justin worshipped him so; the only thing he could figure was the time he'd intervened during Santos's bullying. He and Justin were alike in that regard, if nothing else: they could both never be the sons that their now-deceased fathers had wanted.

Daniel now numbly stared at his untouched coffee.

It occurred to him, while looking into the nauseatingly fragrant depths of his cup, that maybe he should say something comforting, but anything coherent he could think of would just be spitting out an ultimately pointless platitude.

God, he was slow tonight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Justin was openly observing him now, his tousled head propped up on two delicately folded hands.

Daniel haltingly began, "Um, your Aunt Betty, she's going to be…"

"I know." Justin inclined his head towards Daniel's coffee. "Drink."

The obstinate expression—the raised eyebrows, the slightly pursed lips, the dark, well-meaning eyes daring him to disobey—were so much like his aunt's when he'd had too many drinks or refused to take his cold medicine or while coaxing him to eat a bagel, that Daniel almost snorted with wry amusement.

He shouldn't have been surprised. He saw Betty in absolutely everyone and everything nowadays, from Justin to a butterfly on the window of his office.

Daniel downed the coffee, welcoming its searing heat. When he turned back to Justin, he was looking through the glass partition at Betty.

"I wonder if she's dreaming."

It wasn't really a question. "Betty's always dreaming," Daniel responded truthfully.

"I guess so." The words were a whisper; eyes never leaving Betty, who was looking smaller and frailer by the minute somehow, he said, "I'm going back to sleep now. Wake me up if…anything happens."

"You bet."

And because he could sit still no longer, Daniel stood and returned to Betty's side.

DBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBDBD

Daniel sat beside Betty and forced himself to really _look_ at her for the first time since they'd both landed in the sterile, utterly lifeless, utterly un-Betty-like hellhole.

"Hey, baby, I'm right here," he whispered, afraid to touch the Betty mannequin propped up before him.

But Betty was always one for looking at problems head-on, blinking her soft brown eyes at it, then charming the hell out of it; Daniel figured he at least owed her the same effort.

Even if it was killing him. "Oh, my God, what have they done to you…"

Anguished blue eyes traveled over soft, pale bloodless cheeks; the sprinkle of freckles starkly stood out, almost taunting him because they emphasized the colorlessness of her once-vibrant face. Her once-full, gorgeous, bitable, kissable mouth was now painfully chapped and drawn into a scarily indifferent line.

She would've hated the incessant beeping of the monitor; she always hit him repeatedly with a pillow until he turned off the alarm in the mornings.

Daniel had to look away; the glass partition was a safe bet…_focus on Justin, pretending to sleep_…but he did not, could not see Justin. Instead he saw Betty smacking right into the very similar, equally and formerly clean glass partition of the Mode conference room like a little multicolored sparrow, one that dazzled the eyes and, eventually, the heart, ever the tiny whirlwind of lively hues and creativity:

_Are you okay?_

_Hi, I'm Betty Suarez! I'm your new assistant. I'm really looking forward to working with you…_

Daniel swallowed against the odd tightening of his throat. He pressed light, urgent kisses on her translucent eyelids, her hair, her mouth, the tip of her nose.

"So, they say you can hear me," he began lamely. "And that's good because I have some things I need to say to you, Betty."

He took a deep breath. "First of all, you can't leave me. I'm pulling rank here and as your boss, I forbid it. I've been pretty lax in everything so far because, well, I love giving you everything you want, but if you want to leave me, that's just too damn bad."

The more Daniel focused on Betty's blank, sleeping face, the more desperate were the words that tumbled out of his mouth. It's not that he expected her to wake up and roll her eyes, but that's very much what he wanted.

"I couldn't tell my father I loved him before he died. Never told you that, did I? Didn't want you to think I was cold. But when you wake up, I'll tell you I love you when we wake up and when we go to bed, when we make love, when we're standing on our bridge, when we're riding up and down the elevator…all the time, always. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, you know that? The best thing, the _only_ thing my father ever did for me was sending me you."

Daniel felt his chest compressing with fear; everything is always more frightening when the world stops spinning and comes into crystal clear focus. He wished desperately he could go back into his shell of dull feeling. _Betty, Betty, my Betty... _He lightly, tremblingly fingered the heavy bandage on her chest. Her exit wound was bullet-shaped. His was Betty-shaped, and it was ripping through him with a greater, more tragic force than any hunk of metal ever could.

He grasped for the rage that had sustained him for a time during this miserable night but it would not return. "God, you completely butt into my life, and you piss me off and you're so damn stubborn, Betty…"

Something broke, just utterly snapped within him. Daniel did something he could not do while standing in an Armani suit and bearing his beloved Alex's casket, something he could not do when his mother went insane, when his father went to his grave taking the last chance of Daniel's redemption in his eyes, when Sophia's betrayal left him more jaded and wary than before: Daniel wept.

His lifeline was dissolving, his Betty was in a place he couldn't follow, and he wept.

The ridiculous notion came into his head that Betty would be so proud of him for his newfound ability.

He instinctively, nonsensically looked up at her through a salty haze to find her blinking placidly at him. Her eyebrows were furrowed with concern, but a small half-smile quirked the corner of her healing mouth. Her hand with its tube and gauze and tape was held out palm-up.

In the center, one of his tears had fallen.

She seemed proud.

**Whew. Make it through that one alive? The next chapter is a little more lighthearted, kind of an epilogue, really. Please review, I beg of you, 'cause it is surely craved ;)**


	5. Chapter 5: Mark Your Calendars

**A/N: So, I'm going back to Ye Old University and will resume the task of being an English major, writing stuff less fun than B/D fanfic. I'm seriously overwhelmed and extremely thankful to each and every person who reviewed my monstrosities. Thanks and bear hugs (even some kisses) all around :D I will be completing my other fics and starting some new ones, but it's time to wrap this particular fic up. So without further ado…**

Lounging propped up on pillows in Daniel's bed, Betty decided, was the place to recuperate if one _had_ to get capped on the e-train, what with the Egyptian cotton sheets and the plasma TV and one very sweet, hunky, silk boxers-clad boyfriend.

She was a very happy Betty Suarez.

Granted, the loft had been like Grand Central Station for most of the day, with friends and family (both Daniel's and hers and those of the mutual variety) trouping in. Her father, naturally, had brought enough authentic Mexican cuisine to feed a third world country. When she had shot him an exasperated yet adoring look, he'd huffed, "It was a crisis, I cooked!" Justin had crawled on the bed, nuzzled against her, and had fallen asleep for a while like the little boy he had never really been.

A few visitors were unexpected. Becks had helpfully and earnestly put his dubious knowledge of gunshot wounds ("MAN, I was shot in the ASS on safari once") to good use by trying to calculate the exact number of healing days left until Betty and Daniel could resume having sex.

Even Amanda and Marc had deigned to make an appearance, telling her it was sort of okay that she didn't, you know, die, but this didn't mean they liked her or anything. Um.

Daniel himself had been almost literally wrapped around her ever since she'd been released from Pine Crest Memorial and, if her friends, family, and the entire hospital staff's reports were to be believed, way before then.

In fact, Daniel had said very little that day, packing a look that was both fervently adoring and kind of frightening and a quiet, flinty, forceful refusal to let her get more than three feet away from him. Betty'd thought they were going to have an issue on their hands of the "Somebody call security!" variety when the doctor had taken her back for a final examination and fresh bandaging of the wound. The poor, hapless doc had said "Family only," apparently new to the way things worked around an injured Betty, and for Daniel, them was fightin' words.

Needless to say, not only did Daniel accompany Betty into examining room 202, but she was practically on his lap the whole time, his chin resting on the top of her head, her two small olive-complexioned hands fitting into one of his.

Now, both of them in bed and bathed in the flicker of the TV, he was silent, almost eerily so, one hand under her hip cradling her little frame to him; the other hand was gripping the headboard, the knuckles turning progressively whiter even as Pat Sajak instructed the contestant to spin the wheel in the background.

Betty sensed that, for all his loving gentleness, something was deeply wrong with him. She'd seen Daniel through endless drama—his dead brother Alex emerging as the tragically beautiful, vindictive, brilliant Alexis and the rise to power of same, Claire's arrest, escape, and arrest again, Bradford's death, his own various addictions.

But never had Betty felt in her bones the unrest in Daniel Meade as she did now, like his soul had been ripped out, haphazardly stuffed back in the gaping hole, and duct taped shut.

He finally kissed her shoulder and left the bed, paced around like a thwarted jaguar for a few seconds, then finally came to rest his forehead on the door frame leading to the bathroom.

Looking back on it, Betty guessed her mistake was trying humor, which always worked like a charm on Broody!Daniel before. She suspected that he had always found her to be the single most amusing thing on the planet, next to a Slinky and a beer bong. At first, the sheer novelty of her was probably what did it, in a business where no one smiled, much less laughed, due to its wrinkle-making potential. He'd almost done a spit-take with his coffee the other day when she'd informed him that he could run a fashion magazine better than Gandhi but not Jesus. She was sure he got his own dry sense of humor and appreciation of same from Claire—Bradford hadn't exactly seemed like the family crack-up.

"So I was thinking," she tentatively started, "maybe I can get them to put the bullet back in, only not have it, you know, a millimeter away from my heart. Fifty Cent has at least nine bullets in his teeth alone, for Pete's sake, the least mine could do is earn me some street cred around Queens. Suck that, Gina Gambaro," she chirped.

And…crickets.

"Or, I could make it into a Pet Bullet. Instead of a pet rock, get it? It could have its own terrarium. Hell, it's already cost me more than any real pet ever could…"

"Stop it." The words were barely audible, so raspy and thin were their quality.

"I'm just making lemonade here, Daniel," she said in her best reasonable tone. "I'm fine now, really," she asserted sweetly. She painstakingly stood to go to him, one hand wrapped around the bedpost for support.

Daniel gave her a stink-eye that would've been funny had it not been so desperate, fearful, angry, loving.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" _Here we go…_

"Showing you how not-dead I am."

Daniel let loose, finally. Betty was relieved. They both needed this. "No, you're not dead, no fucking thanks to the rat-bastards who did this to you! They won't get away with it, I don't care who I have to bribe, threaten or choke out, and get back in the goddamned bed before you fall and…" He was shaking and yelling and, Jesus, she'd never seen her normally sweet, passive, goofy, devil-may-care love like this before. She needed to get closer to him, but she was weakening, standing there, her bare feet feeling cold and clammy on the floor.

"You'll do no such thing…" she managed, her face ashen, finally sitting on the bed untidily. She held out her arms. "Come here, baby."

He moved like a sleepwalker and they melded together with a groan from Daniel. "Nobody breaks the woman I love, nobody. Betty, I love you so much I can't breathe most of the time and I need to protect you, always, so I can keep on living, too…"

"Shhh…" Betty murmured, stroking his deep brunette locks. "Daniel, as long as there is breath in my body, heck, even if there isn't, depending on how fast I can get back to haunt you, we will never be apart. Never, ever. You're stuck with my annoyingly perky butt. Deal with it."

Having exhausted most of her energy on her thoroughly exhausting, thoroughly worshipped guy, Betty lay back onto the pillows with a sigh.

Concerned, Daniel propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable. He placed a finger under her chin and she opened her eyes, all the more inky dark for the lack-of-sunlight induced paleness of her skin.

"Marry me."

"Okay, if you want me to recover sometime within the next decade, stop slinging phrases like that around." Betty was unconsciously stalling for time with banter, giving him an opportunity to retract his obviously stress-induced proposal of matrimony, trying to ignore her heart, which with every hammering contraction screamed _Dear God, YES._

She closed her eyes and opened them, and there he still was, the Daniel-Smirk blessedly back in place for the first time since she'd awoken. _Damn his smug hide_, she thought lovingly.

"Will I marry you someday when we're both remotely ready for it? Yes, Daniel Meade. I'll be yours, don't worry."

"Oh, you're already mine," Daniel said haughtily with a wave of his hand, his aristocratic features running over her delicious curves. "I just want to officially bind you to me…" He kissed her eyelids. "All nice and legal…" He proceeded by trailing kisses down her chin, neck, chest, stomach. Despite the mischievous glint in his eyes, Betty knew he was as sure of his assertion as the sun rising and setting.

Betty smiled, trying to contain her breathless trembling. She held out her hand with an adorably grave expression. "So it's settled then."

Daniel laughed and sat back up on his knees, clapped his hand to hers, and they shook on it. He placed a kiss in the center of her palm afterwards, his eyes downcast, like they always did when he was thinking. Betty prepared herself for one of his unexpectedly wise Daniel-isms that would emerge with the intensity of a supernova and recede just as quickly, leaving one stunned and gaping and half-blinded.

He spoke finally, his voice low and gruff and all-together serious. "So how long did Becks say that we had to wait to have sex?"

Betty snorted. So much for the deep n' wise theory. "Like you didn't go log it into your Blackberry when you thought I wasn't looking."

They both watched the digital clock click to midnight.

Betty sighed and handed him the Blackberry. Daniel grinned and marked off a day.

_One down…_

**So the last part was all goofy and sappy and angsty. As always, reviews are adored and read and reread because they make me squee. Hope you all enjoyed this thingamabob! You're all amazing, once again, for taking the time to review, so here's a big, resounding THANK YOU!!! Over and out.**


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